


Quick To Complain, Slow To Act

by RbnSS



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anger, Angst, Character Study, Drug Abuse, Drunkenness, Implied Sexual Content, Light Angst, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sharing a Bed, Underage Drinking, it's complicated - Freeform, michael is still a dick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:49:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24732616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RbnSS/pseuds/RbnSS
Summary: Another night in Sandy Shores, in the middle nowhere. The men share a drink or two.
Relationships: Michael De Santa & Trevor Philips, Michael De Santa/Trevor Philips
Comments: 24
Kudos: 91





	1. You Never Forget a Good Movie

"-I haven't seen a good movie in years," 

It rattled out before Michael could think anything of it, merely another piece of light conversation to keep the tension in the car from becoming unbearable. The air was as dry as the sand they drove on, and although the sun had already begun to set, the heat still needed time getting used to. Michael slouched further into his seat, his shirt riding up and skin sticking to the leather, as he watched the roads blur together into one seamless track. The sirens were now completely out of earshot.

Michael's almost always the one behind the wheel, and in a lot of ways that's usually easier. For one, it kept his hands busy. He already smoked through his first cigarette and wasn't ready to hear another lecture from the world's greatest hypocrite- only maybe second to himself. And secondly, it kept him from having to make the small talk. 

"Jesus Michael, do you have to complain every fucking second?" Trevor shouted over the motor, before taking an unnecessary sharp turn that thuds Michael's head into the car's frame. "You sound like you've just been stewing in your own shit for nine years and now you're oozing it out in my car. You fucking reek." 

"It's not your car, asshole," Michael said as he firmed his position, and Trevor rolled down the windows as if to illustrate his point. "And I've had a great time these last few years, thank you very much." 

He nodded sardonically, clearly unmoved. "Oh yeah, with your new FIB friends, and cheesy movies, and your big fake yard and Amanda's big fake tits-" 

"Hey, lay off my wife! And for fuck sake, slow down-" Trevor made another sharp turn, but Michael didn’t budge, his grip hard on the car's emergency handle. He shot him an unimpressed glare. 

"-And now I'm driving your real fat ass back to MY trailer, without even as much as a thank you. No, I'll just keep complaining after abandoning you for-" 

"-Jesus Christ Trevor, would you shut the fuck up about that?" Michael puffed, his free hand absently searching for his box of Redwoods again. The sweat was building upon his forehead and the spike of familiar nausea that came with Trevor's accusations stuck to him like chewed up gum under a shoe, following him with every step taken. In the corner of his eye he watched Trevor's eyebrows furrow, the scar tracing his brow bone getting lost in the deep lines across his forehead. His skin was noticeably pale even under the tender sunset, and Michael hadn't failed to see the changes ten years had made on his old friend. More lines, less hair. His eyes are more sunken- darker, older, and yet they bled chaos like never before. Michael pressed his lips together and rolled his head out the window, the hard wind flushed against his face. 

For the first few years of retirement, he used to hold his breath and see how long it would be until Trevor Philips wormed his way back into what little remained of Michael Townley. It'd be a matter of months, maybe weeks until everything he tried to achieve in North Yankton would unravel, and Michael's throat would be locked within Trevor's big filthy hands, just like old times. It was inevitable, he would think, Trevor would never accept his death. Trevor would tear a hole through the earth to find him, and then shoot a bullet hole through Michael after. But then he got older. Whiskers of gray peppered his hair, and Tracy was old enough to sneak out at night, and Jimmy was failing high school. After it had been years since he last heard of him, he began to imagine Trevor laying somewhere in a ditch, or buried somewhere cold. Maybe he overdosed on meth or every other drug under the sun or was cornered during a solo job. Or maybe he just finally pissed off the wrong guy. 

"Fuck you Michael, fuck you. Don't fucking tell me what to do!"

"Just relax, T. We're almost there, let's try not to kill each other just yet," He sighed, his own fists curling in frustration. Fortunately, Trever only glared at Michael, and Michael made a point of keeping his eyes focused on the broken road ahead.

After a little more than half a decade, Michael didn't think of Trevor anymore. And he tried not to think of anything else either, not the guns or the wheels or the gang- but then Amanda started talking about the girls. The countless, nameless, rarely clothed women Michael had introduced himself to -never with his real name- over the years. In retaliation, Michael asked where the shirt he found under his bed that was two sizes too tight came from. Why she was so friendly with the gardener. It wasn't an unnatural progression. Their bickering was always a standard in their relationship, it just came quicker- witty remarks became ruthless jabs in moments. Now when they have the occasional supper together they fork through it, and when Amanda renovates their house the third time no one dared complain, and when they fall asleep on the opposite sides of their bed, a very generous space holds between them. His heart ached when he thought about it too much. It wasn't the life he foresaw but deserved nonetheless.

However, if Michael was being honest, cheating was the least of their problems.

Trevor made a shallow turn up the road, slowing down as they got closer to the busted up trailer with faded colors and flimsy fencing. Fireflies kindly meandered next to the bushes where Trevor's neighbor stood eagerly for whatever Trevor had in store for him. 

"Michael Townley used to mean something, you know. Now you're just this- this pathetic turd I can't even drive with." There's a tightness to Trevor's tone, and Michael hears the engine cut off but can't turn to look at him. 

Instead he focused his gaze on Trevor's worn out fence, the rusted wires clinging onto its old frame as the chain caught the remnants of sunlight. There was a small tear between the two connecting frames, wide enough for small animals to crawl through. It was the polar opposite of the tall, lush hedges and secure metal gate he had at home, and Michael hated that he felt like he fit in more here than he ever did anywhere in LS. It wasn't a feeling of belonging. He was just more on par. 

Micheal was past the threshold of considering himself middle-aged. He was retired. He could lose a few pounds if he really wanted to. He still had his wits and years of perfected skills- if that quick jewelry shop job was anything to go by, but he certainly was not the same man with a spring in his step and gun in his hand. The only real change was that he stepped up, did what anyone else in his place should've. He took up some real responsibility, made a real home for himself instead of the motel hoping he dallied in. Trevor wouldn't understand that. And if he weren't so damn tired he'd be angry. Angry that his kids and wife left him just in time for Trevor to see the life he built for himself fall apart. Angry at the desert, for being so goddamn hot and depressing and darker than Los Santos ever is at night. And, maybe angry at Trevor, for kneading into everything he hated about himself.

He reached for the handle, clicking it wide open.

"Right well, for the record, Michael Townley is dead," He ducked his head out of the vehicle, trying to not look at Trevor as he smacked the door behind him. "And Michael De Santa needs a fucking drink to save his life." 

He has yet to find salvation at the bottom of a bottle, but what better place was there to look?

-

There's some mindless crap playing on Trevor's small television, the volume low to not disturb Mrs. Madrazo; she being already passed out onto the couch. It looked uncomfortable, her legs folded to the side in order to fit. Michael's efforts to stay undetected is hardly useful once Trevor starts shouting from outside, his steadfast minion eating each word up as if it were the words of God himself. Michael rummaged through the man's near-empty fridge, a little impressed by how clean it was compared to when he first began spending his days here. Mrs. Madrazo was certainly putting in the work, but she was no repairman. The thing barely tuned over 50 degrees. Nothing in this godforsaken desert fucking worked. 

Michael ignored the cheap beer in favor of the malt whiskey he had stored in the back and took two glasses out of his cabinet. He was figuring out quickly that as long as he was stuck here, there was very little else to then drink. Trevor swung open the trailer's flimsy door, and Michael regarded only then that the handle and lock had been smashed. The other man's eyes narrow on the whiskey and he makes a joke about starting off hard, and they both don't cringe as they take a full, lukewarm shot. Michael leaned the sole of his back against the counter, the sweet rosey warmth pooling into his stomach. He quickly digs out his phone and sends Franklin a quick text to see if he could bring out his car tomorrow. 

"You're really to the hip with this kid, huh?" Trevor says almost derisively, peering over Michael's shoulder. "Does Jimmy know you're cheating on him with the makeshift son or are you gonna fake your death to get out of that conversation too?" 

Michael quickly tucked his phone closer to his chest. "The fuck are you on about, T?"

"Oh, I don't know Mikey," Trevor made a show of carrying his drink up high across the trailer, only avoiding where Mrs. Madrazo was sleeping. He must have been getting antsy, either on too much or worse, none at all. Michael watched him with caution, noting the way his muscles tensed and fingers twitched. Or maybe that's just Trevor now, a constant bundle of nerves always on the verge of exploding. "I'm just making the art of conversation. You're so knowledgeable at using people, I figured it'd be a good start."

"Yeah, alright Trev. Speaking of using people, what'd you do to that guy? He lurks worse than the FIB." Michael returned, only half curious and mostly hoping to dip the attention back to Trevor. It's a broken record, and he knew the longer he said nothing the more Trevor was going to bring up his past mistakes, but it irritated him regardless. 

"Ron? Nothing- he's my most loyal business partner in Trevor's enterprise." 

Michael snorted in his drink. "What do you know about business?"

He bared his teeth back, "What do you know about loyalty?" 

They share another shot of whiskey, and then another, and by his sixth this evening he's watching Trevor's back as he crouched down and fiddled with the VCR in his shabby bedroom. The jumble of static slowly shifted into distinguished figures, and Michael hummed appreciatively as an old tape of _Casablanca _began to play.__

__It was definitely odd, both of them lounging on the same mattress and conversing with half a bottle in between them. It had been a long time since he's watched this flick, and there's a heavy mist of deja vu as he glances over at the stunning image that is Trevor, no longer as young as he used to be._ _

__And God, he sure used to be. Not even twenty one yet, both of them drunk off their asses on a spring mattress in a dingy motel room. There was tobacco and weed in the air, and there was Michael, nursing a fractured rib with Trevor laying next to him, his body pressed against his side. The other bed next to them was dogpiled with their equipment and forgoed. The other's body was unusually warm that night, or maybe it was the alcohol swimming in their systems, and Michael leaned into it, just enough to feel the change of pressure. Trevor ran a hand up to his thigh, and neither of them were paying attention to the movie._ _

__Micheal's stomach twisted with unease, suddenly feeling sick with himself. It felt like voyeurism, completely unfair of him to be reminiscing of something once so personal. Not when Trevor was still lying next to him, saying all these ugly things about him that he reckoned was probably more true than he'd like to admit. It wouldn't be hard for him to pick apart the flaws that build Trevor in return, but he knew Trevor was still well aware of them even better than he was. He was just as animated and colorful when he spoke, and although he's older and angrier than when he last saw him, he's still Trevor. Still reckless and selfish Trevor, drinking whiskey hard and watching Michael's taste in movies, even when they both knew Michael Townley was long dead._ _

__He doesn't wait to down his next shot completely. Nausea slipped away along with the memory. Soon Michael's shoulders sunk downward, and he doesn't force his eyes open as he melted further into the cushions._ _

__"Get it together Mikey, I'm not pushing your fat carcass after you pass out." Trevor's voice was fading in and out, and he forced his head to face the ghost that haunted him after death. He had something like solace in those concave eyes- or maybe just mirth that Michael mistakes as compassion. Up close Michael can see how bloodshot they were. And he noticed a faded bug bite on the curve of his nose, and since he was already staring, he focused on the faded scar under the other man's lower lip, ever so familiar to him._ _

__Michael huffed out a ‘fuck you’ and stretched over to reach the whiskey once again. There's not enough liquor left._ _

__"How about this, huh? The night is young but you're not getting any younger, aye lightweight?" Trevor grinned and it's bordering between teasing and cruelty._ _

__"Fuck you."_ _

__"Is that all you can bring yourself to say, you miserable sloth?"_ _

__"Fuck. You."_ _

__Trevor almost laughed and Michael continued to watch the screen with half a mind. He wanted to ask if Trevor remembered this movie. Or more, if he recognized where they first watched it. How it ended. He bet Trevor did, Trevor could probably recall everything about them, and Michael felt evermore guilty for wanting to indulge Trevor in reminiscing such a separate life from their own._ _

__"You're lucky I hadn't gotten around to throwing these shitty flicks out," Trevor said, his voice still so distant despite being so close. His head felt fuzzy, his clothing tighter to his skin. Trevor crossed his legs over each other, his arm lightly brushing against Micheal's in the process. "Do you remember watching this, back in the glory days?"_ _

__Trevor hadn't had much ink when he was younger, his hands ironically bare compared to the amount of messy bloodshed he'd oust during their jobs. Those hands would trace down Michael's chest, glaze gingerly across his abdomen, and dip underneath the waistline of his pants. On top of each other, they could taste the liquor on their tongue and Michael reckoned he could taste the bareness too. He could never get close enough, even with their chests pressed together, with Trevor's legs wrapped around him and moaning something utterly lewd. Short nails digging and breaking skin, sweat building, the knot growing tighter and tighter. Trevor would lean in and pant in Michael's ear- "Don't ever give this up, Mikey."_ _

__"Like I would want too,"_ _

__Between the both of them, it was rarely anything but quick and dirty, that night being no exception. Michael couldn't help himself as he took a long dramatic drag of his Redwood while they both laid together in silence, the smoke stringing playfully in the air. The movie was finishing its last act, and Trevor was buried in the crook of Michael's neck, breathing in whatever cheap cologne he had on._ _

__"Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."_ _

__

____Trevor was still looking at him expectantly, and Micheal didn't approve of how close Trevor was to him. "What?"_ _ _ _

__

____"Goddammit Michael, I asked if you remembered when we watched this pile of crap,"_ _ _ _

__

____Yes, he did. A little too vividly, and he knew he could say yes right now if he wanted to. It would be so so easy, he realized, to fall back into their old pattern. Alone on this shitty mattress, Michael drunk and laying closer to Trevor than he did his wife, it would be so easy to close the distance. If only he were still Michael Townley. If only Trevor wasn't staring so intently, almost as if he knew what Michael was thinking. It was far too honest of an invitation for Michael to accept. He never wanted to be Michael Townley, the man that took all he could and never bothered to give an honest penny back. Micheal Townley, the prick that made every selfish decision under the sun._ _ _ _

__

____He swallowed hard, glancing back at the screen and letting the warmth of alcohol set in. The moment passes, and Michael responds with a retired 'no, Trevor, I don’t’ and they leave it at that.____

__


	2. Whatever This Is

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided this will become a series.

The trailer was unpleasantly warm, moisture locking into his skin as he fanned one of the sleazy magazines laying around towards his face. The weak fan sitting where he kicked up his feet on the table was selfishly pointed at him as Ms. Madrazo worked the kitchen floors. Micheal already ran out of pleasantries to say to her, which encouraged his notion of avoiding her. She continued unbothered regardless, mopping the floors in ease as she hummed to herself. 

He'd skimmed through most of Trevor's outdated magazines already. When they ran out, Micheal surreptitiously poked around for something entertaining, maybe even useful- some sort of leverage he could use over Trevor if and when the time called for it. He didn't get very far. Michael wasn't exactly alone and he doubted letting his guard down in front of the Stockholm-riddled wife of a mob boss was the move. 

Regardless, Trevor didn't seem to carry anything of real value, only the things he personally liked. It reminded Micheal of how ridiculously sentimental Trevor could be. A few odd toys, an action figure he recalled from a long time ago. The film tapes Micheal left in his wake in a box beside the television. Needles with dates on them. There's something about Trevor's escalated drug use that makes his stomach fold into itself, and he bit the inside of his lip whenever the feeling crept upon him.

It's not his fault Trevor was so messed up. He was always messed up. He's a fucked up kind of guy.

He resigned himself to watching Trevor's small TV screen faze in and out of a low resolution to complete static, a steady flow of semi-cooled beers already downed and making way for another. It's only when a fly came buzzing by again, roaming over his head as if he were a pile of shit, did he decide enough was enough. 

Micheal plodded from the couch and to the front porch, the smell of gasoline and dust a welcomed change from the war between Trevor's musk and the chemical wash. He plopped down on one of the steps and rested his elbows on the floorboards, the wood hot against his skin. He briefly wondered if it was worth asking Trevor for sunscreen, but decided against it knowing Trevor would never let that go without making some quip. 

His head rested on the floorboards, his earbuds in and shades on. Micheal let Billy Joel's voice take the wheel, and they drove far away from Sandy Shores. Somewhere wide and air-conditioned, with his wife as happy as she usually is and his children both secluded in their rooms, and himself hunkered down by a poolside. Everything back to how Michael liked it. 

The fantasy melted away as soon as he heard an engine pull up into the driveway, Trevor's obnoxious vehicle stopping infront of him. His lanky was in the seat next to him, shooting a hard glare towards him. Trevor jumped out sporting a wild grin, the kind that told Micheal he just got done with something neither legal nor sane. He closed his eyes, savoring the few more seconds of peace he had left. 

"Take the night off Ron!" 

"I- Yes sir!"

He felt a sharp kick to his shin. 

"Can't bring yourself to do anything other than sitting on your fat ass, huh?" Trevor says, but there's no real bite to it as he passed him up the stairs. 

"I could kick your ass," Micheal called back in the same manner, plucking out the earphones. He barely caught Trevor's response, a dubious grunt, as the man assaulted the screen door and made his residence well known. His voice was booming as he greeted Mrs. Madrazo. 

Ron scurried back to his side of the yard, his scrawny frame blending behind the short hedge where Micheal had no doubt he was still being watched from. It was a weak display. He would almost feel sorry for the guy, always being constantly under Trevor's imposing thumb, one step out of place from becoming another smear on his wall. He could, but he didn't consider himself to be in any better circumstance. He might as well be held hostage here too with Mrs. Madrazo. Micheal pressed his lips together in annoyance, ready to place his earbud in and sink back into his mind, before Trevor and the lady emerged from behind him, arms linked. The floorboards rattled as they descended, his right arm that hung leisurely by his side nearly trampled under Trevor's boots.

"Wha- Where the fuck are you two going?" Micheal exclaimed, propping himself upwards. Trevor opened the passenger side door of his truck for Mrs. Madrazo. 

"We, _unlike you_ , are still young ambulant souls rich with life that doesn't suck ass and knows how to have a good time," Trevor responded, barely glimpsing back at him. His hair was more disheveled than usual, his mannerisms jutted and quick. Now that he was really looking at him, Micheal caught the damp sweat built across his back and the fresh splotches of blood peppering his shirt. 

He would usually shrug this off, if only Micheal didn't see it clearly for the death trap it was. Trevor was erratic, high off some stunt he pulled or something much more literal.

And sure, Mrs. Madrazo was a strong lady. She had no problem striking Trevor for his interest in gasoline, and her demeanor hardly changed from the moment they met to every moment after Trevor ripped the tape off her mouth. Being the wife of the most temper-mental mob boss did that to a person. But Trevor was a whole different breed of temper-mental, he's a rabies-infected dog desperate to sink its teeth into anything it could fit in its mouth and then some. If he let that trap snap, Micheal would never be able to see his family again. "I'm taking this little lady for a night on the town."

"Is that really such a good idea, T?" He was standing up now, his sunglasses pushed up to his hairline.

"Oh, is there a problem, M?" Trevor challenged. Mrs. Madrazo glanced between the both of them, clutching one of her hands towards her chest. 

Micheal schooled his expression. "Yeah, there's a problem. What the hell am I supposed to do?" 

"It's Sandy Shores Micheal, land of the free, do whatever you want-" 

"Trevor," Mrs. Madrazo interrupted, placing a soothing hand on Trevor's wrist. His testy facial features softened as he turned, like she was too delicate to see his frown, and he pulled in closer as she whispered something in his ear.

The familiar sense of unease came back as he witnessed the exchange, Trevor's grimace contouring itself into something a little too genuine. A little too human. As for Micheal's experience, this Trevor only split between two emotions- spiteful, unfiltered rage, and whatever he felt when he was high enough to mask it. He questioned, briefly, of when did he decide Trevor was incapable of being human? And he supposed it was the same time Micheal decided to become something of a model civilian. 

Mrs. Madrazo gently patted his arm, before smiling politely at Micheal and heading back into the trailer. The edge of Trevor's frown returned, his chest a little more inflated. But then he smacked his hands together and exhaled through his nose, beckoning Micheal into the truck. "Alright, change of plans. Boys night, get in." 

-

Trevor drove through the desert haphazardly, and Micheal tried to hide how much he didn't mind. There's wind in his hair and music in his ears, and nothing but open roads for miles, spare the rare passerby. Franklin had said he'd drop off his car tomorrow morning. He hasn't had much contact outside of Sandy Shores. It's not like anyone was missing him. 

But he missed. He wanted to ask Franklin if Amanda or the kids tried to contact Micheal through him. But the last thing he needed was for Franklin to see so soon how lonely he was, if he hadn't figured that out yet. 

"We're here."

The sun is halfway behind the mountains when they finally park, moths occupying the outdoor lights of the bar as it soon came to life in warm yellows. Two grizzly looking men having a toke by the door diverted their gaze as Trevor and he slammed the doors shut and jaunt into the roadhouse. It wasn't Micheal De Santa's scene. The floor was clearly aged and the walls were plastered with bumper stickers and rankity decorations. The bodies sitting by the bar weren't trying to look younger or richer than they were. The music was weakly emanating from the speakers. Washed out clothes, old tunes, dim white lighting. It's nothing like the pubs he was used too, back in Los Santos. 

"Welcome to the best joint in town," announced Trevor as they stepped inside. A few of the older men looked over, recognition draped across their features. Most tucked their heads back down, except for one, who quickly dropped some change on the table and slid by them. The bartender, a lady half a decade older than Micheal, flashed Trevor a scowl as she finished wiping a glass. 

"Trevor, what did I tell you last time-"

"I am showing my friend around," He gestured to Micheal, and he offered a placating smile for her troubles. There is something to be said about the people here. They're a lot more rooted than the ones in Los Santos, unfazed from unconventionality. As she eyed Micheal down he did the same, a little impressed by her sturdy gaze. Trevor rang an arm around Micheal's shoulder, pushing him inside. "C'mon, this fat snake just needs a drink, lady."

"Most people do near this one," she said warningly as she pointed a finger at Trevor. Though she must have figured a long time ago that it's far more trouble kicking Trevor out then letting him stay, so she pours two beers for the both of them and lets them find a table. 

They take a seat in one of the booths by the tall windows. The leather crinkled unpleasantly underneath his weight as he gazed outside the window, the stretch of earth never ending as the sky matured into darkness. 

"God, would it kill you to not look so fucking miserable," Trevor snapped, and Micheal looked back at him. "What? Not enough adultery for your well-pampered taste?" 

"Shuddup, asshole," He responded, taking a tiny sip of his cold beer. Micheal didn't mean to daydream, but it doesn't go unbeknownst to him that this is the first bar they've been too together since the last one, nine years back. Once upon a time, they sat with their shoulders hunched, hushed, in a run down joint in the middle of nowhere, soft folk music playing from a jukebox as clumps of wet flakes slowly built up in the streets. They were running through the game plan again, just the two of them this time. Trevor was growing more distant. His eyes were not nearly as manic as they were now, but it had been getting worse. They were more sunken, bloodshot, sleep-deprived, and restlessly alert. Trevor was never one for personal maintenance, but it had become one of the many elephants in the room. Trevor looked bad. Really bad. And Micheal was always so tired. 

Though instead of sipping black coffee in the raw daylight, it's beer. And instead of snowy streets, there's a shoddy dry road stuck between cacti and coyotes, and sand picked up whenever a rare breeze or a car passed. And Trevor no longer had that needy adoration in his eyes. 

At least the place had air conditioning, thank God. Michael took another sip, the glass rim clinking against his teeth. The beers were alright too.

"So, what were you and your friend up too?" Michael starts.

Trevor's leg bounced rapidly out of sync with the music, his eyes never quite landing anywhere. Even underneath the dim lighting, Micheal could still see the persistent yellow gloss from a history of drug use. There's a question of when he shot up last that Micheal doesn't ask. "Ron and I had some business to take care of with our dear friends at _Merryweather,_ but-" 

"Merryweather?" Michael interjected, his hand tightening around the glass. He leaned in, keeping his voice low. "What the fuck are you doing with Merryweather still?" 

"Relax Mikey, no one saw me," Trevor responded nonchalantly, raising his beer to his chapped lips halfheartedly, "And if they did, I've taken care of them." 

Michael had a pretty good idea of what that meant. "We're supposed to be laying low!"

"Don't be such a wet blanket Michael," Trevor retorted, indifferent to how loud his voice grew. Michael quickly shot an uneasy glance around the bar, ensuring they haven't caught any attention. "I brought you out here for drinks between old friends, don't ruin it with your shittiness."

Confirming no one was paying them any mind, Micheal allowed himself to relax into the booth. He numbed his worries with a long swig of his beer. It's not as strong as he needs it to be, so he bites. "What exactly did you do?"

"Oh you know," Trevor gazed with disinterest around the bar, "Crashed a small plane into a bigger plane and hijacked it from the inside."

"...For real?"

Trevor's eyes narrowed. "Yes, for real. They were exporting some cargo of interest. All went well, 'cept I had these two asshole-jets tailing me." 

"How'd you make out?"

"I jumped."

"No shit," Michael did a quick run over. He looked fine- well, he looked as if hell could walk- but not notably maimed. "You don't look like you just jumped off a plane."

"That's because I know how to take care of myself, I don't need a crew or someone to hold my hand. I'm not you." Trevor spat, before taking a long drink of his beer and killing it instantly. 

Michael raised his eyebrows, leaning back incredulously. He knew Trevor could handle himself. He's seen him do things the average joe would have nightmares about. If anyone could pull some bullshit like that with fucking Merryweather, it would be someone as loosed cannoned as Trevor. Micheal almost wished he'd been there, instead of sweating his ass off in Trevor's trailer for the past few days. He licked his lips with new interest. He could've used an excuse to stretch his legs. "So what'd you make out with?"

Micheal caught a slight hesitance before Trevor responded. "Well... Things got hairy when the plane was shot down..."

Michael quirked his eyebrows, and when that sentence didn't end he turned his head towards the window, away from Trevor's face. 

He bit the inside of his mouth. It was just like back in Los Santos, with the ship and the experimental military weapon. He remembered how proud Trevor had been, flaunting his scheme in Lester's face just for it to crumble in seconds. He snickered. 

Trevor's eyes brood into Micheal. "What."

He shook his head, attempting to swallow it down as he grinned into his drink. 

"What's fucking funny, Michael?" When he didn't receive a response another time, Trevor slammed both his palms onto the counter. A few heads peered over, including the bartender. 

Micheal nearly choked up, returning to meet Trevor's gaze. He needs more beer. "Nothing- nothing, it's just. It's so you, Trevor." 

Trevor snarled at that. Michael just killed his drink, before calling over for some shots. 

"What's that supposed to mean, you insensitive fucking toad, I nearly died-" 

Micheal shrugged. "You have no one to blame but yourself, Trev."

"Don't." He stood, his palms flat against the table as he loomed towards Micheal, threat rolling off his tongue, "Call. Me. That." 

"Excuse me, boys," the bartender placed the tray of spirits on the table, before taking a measured step back and placing her hands on her hips. "If you wanna bring it outside go for it, but it's not happening in my bar, ya hear?"

Michael shot her a charming smile. "I'm sorry for causing any disturbance, I'll make sure to add it to my tip," he winked, not missing the little roll of her eyes as she sauntered away. 

Trevor was still sneering but had retaken his seat. "You are fucking hilarious, Mikey."

Michael raised an eyebrow. "What? It's not like you're paying." 

Trevor doesn't respond. Between them sat a row of six shots each, whiskey topped to the rim of short glasses. Micheal doesn't hesitate to down the first two, and Trevor doesn't comment then either, letting the soft music fill in the silence. 

The other man toys indifferently with the glass in his hand before downing it, and the tension eases a little until Trevor goes to stand again. "I have to go to the lil' girls room,"

Micheal was nursing his third glass up to his lips as he peered into the other man's eyes. The beers from earlier that day must've still been in his system, or maybe he's not as young as he used to be, but he's suddenly feeling queasy as he reached the man's eyes. Dark brown circles filled with a familiar dullness, starving to be replenished. He's seen it before. He's seen it several times before. It rolled off his tongue before he even heard himself say it, "You better not shoot up in there."

Trevor ignored the comment, sliding out of the booth and striding towards the short corridor near the back. Micheal downed the shot and dropped it on the counter. "I'm serious Trev, I'm not dealing with your shit while I'm out here."

"Fuck you, Michael," Trevor spun to face him, his fists balling by his sides. "Tell me something, where do you get off, Townley? And where's my fucking medal for dealing with your fucking shit?"

Michael ignored the looks they were getting. Luckily the bartender was outback. "I take care of my shit, it's you who can't- can't-" 

"'Can't', 'can't'- can't what, Micheal? I share my side of the goddamn bed with you, you selfish, ungrateful fuck!" Trevor snarls, stocking back towards him. 

Micheal stood up, wanting to shout that it's his fault he had to hide out here in the first place, but that's not entirely true. Micheal was the one who roped Trevor in, brought him to Mr. Madrazo, and expected Trevor to act civilized. Unpredictable, off the handle, probably cannibalistic Trevor- to act civilized. He made his bed. Now he had to lay in it for a few weeks, staring at the back of Trevor's head. His tongue felt thick in his mouth as he tried to swallow. 

"You think you're so fucking great," Trevor continued, "But I know the real you. Your kids know the real you." 

"Leave my kids out of this-" 

"-They can't stand you, and you can't just throw precious little dollars in their faces and make it all better! You're not _'De Santa',_ not _'Townley',_ just a wallowing hollow shell of the fucking man!"

A high tension silence stilled between them. Micheal had his lips pressed together into a thin line, his jaw clenched so tightly it might snap off. What's worse is that he had no retort. Nothing to defend himself with. He blames it on the alcohol. 

There's a distant, airy snort from the far end of the bar, followed by a low mutter. "Psychos."

Trevor turned his head towards the bar, his face cold as he locked in a more tangible target to unleash his wrath upon. His body was unreasonably tense, winter's ice and the sun's rage barely contained underneath his battered skin. "What did you say?" 

Surprised that he was heard, the man puffed out his red cheeks, his thinning blond hair hidden underneath a baseball hat. He bristled, flabbergasted, a response bobbing on his tongue. 

"I- I-" 

Trevor didn't give him a chance to retract the statement before he surged, grabbing the man by his hunting vest and throwing him onto the floor. The bartender emerged from outback just in time to see Trevor saddle on top of him, one fist curled around the man's collar and the other one winding up in the air. 

Michael moved from his spot as one of the man's friends did the same. The friend is much older, all bones underneath tanned skin. He reached under Trevor's shoulders in an attempt to hurl him off but Micheal, out of pure reflex, stops him with a right hook to the jaw, the hit resonating down his arm with a satisfying noise. The older man tumbled over, knocking a few stools down with him.

The bartender shouted as a few of the other men got up to join in, one of them wringing an arm around Micheal's neck into a chokehold. Micheal barraged his elbow into the stranger's ribcage, releasing the offending arm with his other hand. He twisted it around the other man's back, his free arm securely rung around his neck. He felt younger, his body coming to life as he kicked down one the man's legs and heaved him into the floor. Underneath Trevor the man's nose was squirting profusely, blood tracking down his cheek and across his mouth as Trevor landed another solid punch. The noise is dull and wet. 

Michael knew it was all just noise. Another pounding distraction to keep the venomous words from flowing. To prevent the harsh, ugly truth from revealing itself.

A whistle resounded from behind the bar. 

"Everyone get the hell out," The bartender cocked her gun, her voice firm and angry. "Especially you, Trevor!" 

-

"You never know when to shut up, do you?" Micheal said, his seat pushed back as he stared into the night sky. The truck jounced over potholes and uneven pavement, and Micheal let it rock him.

"Oh, I'm sooo sorry you can't handle a little bit of truth," Trevor quipped, steering with one hand as his other hung limply outside the truck, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the side of the door. "You're so fucking sensitive now, it matches your tits. You can't handle anything these days."

Michael shook his head, his eyes lazily following a jet travel across the aerial heights. "And you can? You fall apart the second I turn my back on you." 

"You are greatly exaggerating," Trevor responded stiffly, the truck bobbing over something Micheal assumed was roadkill. "And it wasn't a second, it was ten years."

"I know," Michael agreed, mostly because he didn't want to argue anymore. He didn't feel angry, it was too much of a nice night. The air felt cool on his skin, the sun long gone now and replaced with a deep black sky, freckled with twinkling stars. It's the first time he's seen the stars so clearly since he moved to Los Santos. The longer he stared, the more he noticed each one, blinking down at him as if they're getting tired as well. He breathed in, letting the fresh air fill his lungs before exhaling softly as if the world were his cigarette. 

The car jolted sharply to the right, a horn blaring as a car drove by. 

"Jesus Trevor, watch the road!" Micheal yelped, his hand grabbing onto the side of the truck. He heard the driver yell out from behind them, and Micheal vainly flipped him off. Trevor didn't respond, concentrating straight ahead with a strange look. His usual tightness had lost some of its strain. 

Michael sank back into his chair, sucking in another breath. He glanced at the unchanging sky, the stars still there, before shifting his gaze to the back of Trevor's head. He doesn't usually let himself look at Trevor. It's like the stars- the longer he looks the more he sees. Little thin scars littered his skin. Blemishes from his needles. Freckles trailing his neck. Various stains across his disheveled shirt. The familiar outline of his jaw and shoulders. The muscles in his arm, his strong hands still coated with blood tight around the wheel. 

"You miss this, don't you?" Trevor asked earnestly, his voice picking up softer than before.

"Yeah, I missed this." He closed his eyes, lulled by the truck's engine and chirping of the wildlife, and Trevor's scent lingering in the seats. "Whatever this is."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More tags will be added as chapters continue. Leave a comment/kudos if u enjoyed it (or didn't, I'm not picky), it motivates me to keep on writing. Thank u


	3. Clean and Simple

There's red tracing across the moldy carpet, red prints on the bedsheets, and red splattered like confetti across the motel's heavy curtains. A woman's unruly orange hair poked out from under the blankets which covered her awkward form. Her slender arm dangled lifelessly off the side of the bed, neat nail polish reflecting the small crack of pale light from the other side of the room. The trail of light would guide Micheal to the bathroom if he dared to take another step further into the cluster fuck room he found himself in. There was a loud, dreadful essence of death amongst the booze, musk, and smoke. 

It had been three weeks since they split during a heist after being trailed for nearly three hundred miles. Micheal kept his head down, and every eighth hour he found a payphone and dialed. Sometimes the phone rang, short and shrill, for what felt like a decade until it quit. Other times it would only ring once, twice, before it abruptly cut off. 

"Getting clingy- heh, that's not the Mikey I know. He only clings onto idled versions of his shitty self." 

"Where the fuck are you?" He tried to keep his voice low despite the harsh grit in his throat. He saw his breath against the glass as he puffed; the crisp Yankton weather was dropping deeper into the negatives each night. Rows of headlights plashed through wet snow, the traffic minimal during these late hours. "Jesus, do you know what the fuck you've done? Lester had to ship the merchandise fucking two weeks ago. The buyer fucking walked. Do you even have the score? Did you lose it?" 

The line was momentarily quiet. Micheal's heartbeat was pulsating to his skull, his gloved hands squeezing the phone's handle hard enough for it to hurt. He was aching all over, his body unrested and pent up from the nights alone. It was rare Michael ever slept entirely alone during a job. He was either with his team or entertaining a hooker, or, although more rarely now given the circumstances, it was just him and Trevor, sharing a lousy cigarette between each other. Alone after a job meant failure. It meant a loss. 

"Is-" the voice hitched, rough like gravel through the static. "-is that all you want? You want your _score_ back?" 

Michael pressed his back against the glass as he dragged out a hefty sigh, the air icy in his lungs. Trevor sounded miles away, pitiful and shallow, and deeply confused. "T, where are you?" 

There's a crackle on the other line before Trevor's labored breathing picked up heavier. "I am so far gone, Mikey. I'm seein' stars, brother, what 'bout you?" 

Michael almost wished he never tried to call tonight. Wait till the morning, at least. He wanted to hurl the payphone off its cord and smash it through the glass, or reach his hand through the receiver and drag his partner out of whatever hellhole he buried himself in. "Fuck, T. Fuck. I'm going to come get you, alright. Where are you?" 

"Ah... 120 Malabar Drive. It's the building in piss yellow. Can't miss it," Trevor responded, and Michael was already calculating the quickest route there. He pulls the phone away, but not quick enough before catching a faint murmur, "It's already too late, buddy." 

The motel room left much to be desired, with a narrow and claustrophobic interior, and yet it appeared more vacant than it should have been. The wallpaper was never the same each time he looked. The blood patterns didn't keep its shape. Upon closer investigation, the woman in bed had moppy brown hair. Smooth and fine and smelt of faint kumquats. There must've been two more bodies next to it, familiar in ways he couldn't linger on any further than he had. It was clear from the moment he smelt that putrid stench that they were already deceased.

"Trevor?" He tried, and when there was no response his heart pinched painfully. His legs were lead as he forced them forward, and without preparing himself he pushed the ajar door open. 

Trevor's shivering body was hurled over the toilet seat, barefoot and shirtless, his skin red and hot and sweaty. His long hair clung to his face as his cheek laid slack against the seat. Brown, shallow eyes barely reached Michael's. 

"Mm. Michael-" Trevor picked his head up only slightly, his eyebrows furrowed in disoriented confusion. "Are you an angel or is this hell?"

Michael didn't hesitate to grab the gun by his side. "Where's the loot, Trevor?"

"Is that all you care about? When does it end, Mikey? When does the lying end?" The left side of his face was coated with running blood. "You sack of shit, are you going to shoot me just to keep your secret safe?"

He cocked the handgun without thought, the barrel aimed at his partner's skull. His arm was trembling, his grip loose and detached. The light above them flickered a deep sunset orange, and Michael could feel ants crawling under his skin. There was something so awfully wrong with the room. Everything was clashing in with each other in ugly shapes and shadows. The more he focused the less he saw. 

"Michael?"

His feet were pinned to the floor and despite his trembling form his arm was rigid in its stance. Despite the alarm bells ringing there was no exist off this mission course. It was as if he were a ragdoll on a rollercoaster, each shake came harder than the last. He watched Trevor's poor form spit a wad of phlegm into the toilet. Trevor shouldn't have such an intricate tattoo on his right arm.

"Michael?"

The bullet fired on its own. It's Brad that died, not Trevor. 

"Michael."

No one can ever know what happened. No one can know what he did. Especially not Trevor. 

"Michael, Jesus fuck-" 

His eyes shot open as he sprung up, nearly colliding heads with Trevor. Michael threw a protective arm between them, another reflexively searching under his pillow for a gun. 

"Easy cowboy, easy. You're not dreaming anymore," Trevor said, allowing some distance between them. He's drenched in the warm lamplight, his face contorted in a generous line of concern. The room pieced itself into focus, and Michael tried to regulate his breathing, swallowing down the dryness in his burning throat. Trevor's presence grounded him, although still a little too close to his own. He then nodded towards the nightstand. "There's a glass to your right."

His voice was deep and quiet, if not a little hoarse from sleep. He was leaning on one arm as he watched Michael snatch the cup and drink what was left at the bottom of the glass. It was whiskey, bitter and unhelpful, and Michael nearly gagged.

"Just a nightmare, actually," Michael responded. He threw his legs over to the side of the bed, pushing himself off. 

"Yeah, yeah I could tell. That all better just be sweat, I'm not letting lady Madrazo clean your piss off these sheets." 

"Oh, but you sure don't mind her cleaning after you." He retorted as he shook his shoulders awake and gave a slow roll of his neck. 

"Is that a confession? Is the new Michael De Santa a bedwetter?" Trevor shuffled to the corner of the bed, eyeing the softness of Michael's stomach peeking under his shirt as he stretched. "It's the dementia, isn't it? And here I thought you had a few more years."

"Good morning to you too, jackass."

The first break of dawn pierced through the window above the sink, it's light a helpful navigator through the trailer. He crept into Trevor's small kitchen, quiet enough to not disturb the sleeping body on the couch. He twisted the rusted knobs, before ducking down and lapping water from the faucet like a wild beast. 

"What was the dream about?" Michael startled at Trevor's voice, clear and right next to him, and he unceremoniously knocked his head on the faucet.

"Can you not fucking do that," he grumbled bitterly as he touched his forehead, still making an effort to stay quiet. "Christ."

"Well?"

"Huh? I don't recall," Michael twisted the knob and took another go before making a face and shutting it off. "The water tastes like shit here."

"Maybe that's 'cause you don't remember what real water tastes like," Trevor said as he leans the sole of his back comfortably against the counter. Michael simply glared at him as he continued his one-sided tirade, studying his short untidy hair and deep mouth lines, to the dip between his neck and his shoulder, down to his palms flat against the counter. He licked his lips, wiping away the residue from the sink. His mouth was still too dry as his eyes searched those wrists for god knows what. 

Maybe for nothing. He's not sure yet. Trevor's veins were purple and budging against his skin. There's a sickening surge of deja vu, as if his subconscious was trying to lead him somewhere.

"...Your body is probably seventy percent bourbon. And the rest, blood as cold as a salamander."

Michael's gaze snaps back to Trevor's and blinked incredulously. "A salamander, huh?" 

"I'm telling you, Mikey, this place is good for you." Trevor took a sip from a mug that he'd seen sitting on the counter since the other day. Michael didn't bother to say anything as he attempted to shake off this sinking feeling lurking under his skin. 

Trevor steadied his gaze. "So now, what was the dream about?" 

Michael stared for a beat longer than he should've, before shrugging off and heading back to the bedroom.

\- 

The engine revved louder than anything worth of miles, the radio a close second as he tapped one hand to the beat against the wheel's comfortable leather. Michael had his elbow resting on the window side, a half-eaten ice cream melting in his other hand. He quickly swiped his tongue over a running streak before it could leak onto his newly furnished seats. The car's fresh paint job was too new for a town like this, and Michael would never admit the pride he felt when he drove by a smaller, shabbier vehicle. 

It did feel good being away from Los Santos. In a hip and trendy city like that, he was outdated. Old. Cooked and off the sales rack. Sandy Shores was vastly incomparable, almost an entirely different planet. One where he was the fresh blood, the new meat. On the fucking young side. 

He doesn't notice the heat nearly as much anymore, and Trevor and him have been mostly getting along. Mainly because as the weeks stretched by, Trevor spent less and less time in the trailer, sometimes for as long as days, only visiting for Mrs. Madrazo. At the beginning Michael figured he would be on high alert, devising ways to stay clear of Trevor, or at the least keep him entertained for as long as possible before the man did something rash. He didn't plan on Trevor to be running some sort of enterprise in the middle of the fucking desert. 

He's not willing to admit that he could be slightly interested in whatever Trevor was doing during his days, so he doesn't ask. And when he does ask, he never tags along. Interest doesn't equate approval of Trevor's eccentric lifestyle. Not at all. 

Michael took a quick bite of his ice cream, soft and sweet as strawberry should be. He felt it smear on the corner of his mouth, and he does a balancing act of keeping his eyes on the road while searching for a napkin in the glove box. A two wheeler cut infront of him despite the empty roads, nearly causing collision if Michael hadn't gunned down on the breaks just in time. Two other bikers passed him, all three solid and burly men. Michael caught the first one looking over his leather-cladded shoulder, the distance nor the bushy beard could mask the smug grin on his face as they drove off. He watched them until they were nothing but dots along the road, his ego a little hurt, before he continued at a slower pace than before. 

He kept the radio off as his escapism fantasy had been thrown off and took another mouthful of ice cream, the flavor a little blander than before. 

He was considering turning back before he felt his phone vibrate in his front pocket. He fished it out and holds it between his shoulder and ear, and there's a sad little moment before he answers where he expects Mandy on the other line.

"Y'ello?" 

"Michael!” A chirped voice sang, “Where are you and where do you think you're going?" 

"Trevor." Michael's foot went heavier on the pedal. "Uh, Senora National Park, heading to nowhere, why?" 

"Great, take a U-turn down route 13, we're by Rex’s Diner." 

Michael took a bite of the cone, vainly hoping Trevor doesn't hear the crunching or slight muffle of his voice. "Who's we?" 

"Listen, Michael," the other man started, and he could feel another unfortunate migraine arising. "I know you're so deeply repressed that you think you need a lil' red Audi to make up for your lack of personality, but there are other ways to get back into action brother."

"Hey, I like this car."

"-And you owe me one. Two, if you think about it. Or maybe ten, one for every year you lied to me,” He can hear Ron trying to speak up in the background. “Yeah yeah yeah shut up. There’s a little thing I have to settle between Trevor Industries and a few of its lackluster rivals. The Lost is trying to resettle back in Grapeseed, let's say you and I tag-team it like back in the good ol' days?" 

"The good old days are behind me, Trev. I don’t do that anymore." Michael says almost out of obligation for himself. It feels like pure bullshit, even to him.

"Correction: Didn’t. Now bring your dangerously high cholesterol ass down here, I am not fucking around." The other line died.

Michael tossed his phone to the seat next to him and half-heartedly mulled over whether he should actually go or not. He thinks of the three assholes on bikes, old and gruff. He wouldn’t mind teaching them a lesson on road hospitality, and he had nothing else planned today outside of sweating on Trevor's already sweat-logged couch. On the other hand, Trevor had been just fine without him so far. 

He looked at his little pink ice cream dejectedly, before tossing it out the window with a defeated grunt. 

-

Driving with Trevor shouldn't feel as natural as it did. They adapted into their roles quickly, their personalities fitting into place like a grotesque human jigsaw puzzle. Even when they first reconnected that faithful afternoon, the forced banter to keep Trevor occupied befell instinctively. Maybe that had more to say about how easy bullshitting came to Michael. 

Driving with Trevor with Ron glaring at the back of your head was as unpleasant as one could imagine. Michael swore he is one ounce of self-awareness from kicking the back of his seat like a neglected child fighting for mommy's attention. 

He felt the usual dread that incarcerated him whenever he was in close proximity to Trevor. Each mile it dug a little deeper, and it got harder to shake off with his old age. It was like the anxiety of sneaking out at night behind your father’s back. He knows he’ll come out clean, he always does. But Trevor is unpredictable at best, and an evil bastard when he wants to be, and you don't come out clean with him.

"Must I repeat the game plan, or- or do you understand?" Ron asked as he itched the top of his hands anxiously. Ron wasn't necessarily a mean spirited person, but there are things about Michael that rubbed him the wrong way. One could say betraying Trevor and falsifying his death so he could work with the higher ups of society, possibly with the Illuminati and most definitely with the Chiliad Mountain cult, would be one of those somethings. 

"I thought we were tag teaming?" Michael asked with no real conviction, his eyes focused on the road, "You know, just us."

Ron scoffed, squaring his shoulders in an attempt to sound like Trevor. "I am just as much as part of the team-" 

"Shut up Ron."

"Of course, Trevor!" 

"I think I got it," Michael said, suppressing the slight tug of pride on his lips, "You need my help on staking out some jackasses because they robbed you?"

"Not just any jackasses!" Ron snapped, almost offended by Michael's arrogance. Seriously, how did this guy become partners with Trevor? "The Lost is a notorious biker gang-"

"Was," Trevor interjected, "-a notorious biker gang." 

"W-was!"

"And I bet you guys butted heads."

"That and very much more!" Trevor agreed happily. 

Michael abruptly switched lanes, speeding well above the limit and passing each vehicle next to them. Neither Trevor nor Michael flinched over the shift. "We're trying to stay low, off the radar, T."

"This _is_ off the radar. It would be _on the radar_ if I didn't do something. Trust me, the people in this town talk." Trevor slid him a toothy grin. "C'mon Mikey, where're your balls? Or are they lost under all that meat you carry around?"

He ignored the comment. “And exactly what did they take?”

“Sorry, that’s classified business,” Trevor says. “But it’s vital for T. inc's growth. She’s still a little delicate.”

Michael doesn't appreciate the secrecy but he doesn't push it either. He turned onto the dirt road, sighing mainly at himself and the giddy feeling in his stomach. Damn it all to hell. “Keep it clean and simple, alright?” 

Trevor’s grin split wider, and suddenly he’s howling and shaking Michael’s shoulder comically, “That’s what I like to hear! Good ol’ Townley back in action!”

He really thought it would be simple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate dream sequences as much as the next guy but I promise this one will be relevant  
> I know it took me a while but with work and school it's been stressful to find the time, so here's a short-ish chapter. The next part hopefully will come out later this month. Thanks for waiting.  
> I loved the comments and appreciation u all left in the last chapter, it helps me so much with finding the motivation. Tell me what u think so far, feedback is welcome


	4. The High Ground

There's only so much a woman could withstand before she broke. There would come a day, during the calm glow of an incessant series of mornings, when the life once so resilient and warm would eventually fizzle out like the ends of gentle red curls. The smiles will become tight and few in between, with nicotine-rimmed gums and week old bruises that rested no longer just above the skin. It's the graceless way they fall, eagerly, to escape their youth as if they're not running on the same seamless path. Trevor had seen it in his mother, in the women he observed dance, the one's twirling the strands of their hair in empty parking lots and back allies. He knew too well when something's been beaten enough times, the pieces can never slide back into place the same way. 

Patricia held that tray in her tidy hands, three wide-rimmed glasses filled to the brim with bourbon, and it was yet another reminder taking a familiar, elegant shape. She held a collected gaze, unperturbed by her husband's anger or the two other men's presence. No doubt dangerous men weren't anything new to her, or maybe she just knew she had nothing to be afraid of. Later that same day, those unwavering eyes studied the grip on her wrists as the man wrapped it with tape; how it was just loose enough for it to be comfortable. Trevor proceeded to bend down to his knees on top of the harsh outdoor tiles, carefully maneuvering her legs together despite the time sensitive operation. When he was done he carried Patricia in the same manner one would carry a bride, before laying her inside the trunk of his car. 

"Trust me, you don't want to stick around after me," he said, giving her one last confident look before gently closing the trunk until it clicked. The vehicle trembled to life quickly after, and her body rocked with each steep turn he took. Mrs. Madrazo hardly minded, after all, this is to be expected for such a dangerous getaway. 

"It's a bit cramped back there, but after I pick up Michael I'll move you upfront with me." 

Patricia closed her eyes in acceptance, still breathing in her husband's cologne. It stuck to the car's interior as it did with their bedsheets, their bathroom towels, and occasionally her clothes. It was comforting in its familiarity. It was also suffocating, in the way colognes and marriages can be. 

"He was the guy with me earlier, the heavy one. Uh, kick to the side if you can hear me. Or just go ballistic if you're offended by any of this, this shit ain't mine!" 

There was a weak thud in response. The confession was a pleasant surprise, even if Trevor had reckoned she wouldn't be. He was giving her a much needed getaway from an underappreciating, underpaying asshole. Michael, of course, didn't see it that way. Which was fine, because Michael didn't understand a lot of things. 

"That's why his family life is non-existent, even with all the money he didn't earn and his cozy little living quarters in Los Santos fakewood," Trevor groaned, and although the denunciation felt justified the punch wasn't nearly as prolific. Their time together since reuniting hadn't been bad. 

The soft evening glow was soothing, the gentle breeze caressing them in tenderness. Patricia and he relaxed on the porch as they slowly sipped black tea. It's a little fruity for Trevor's taste, especially when he was drinking it out of a tiny teacup he had before seen in Ron's cabinets. It reminded him of a decade before, when he still had the sanction to play tea time with little four-year-old Tracy. She would wrap a boa around his neck and pour a plastic kettle over his plastic cup, and speak in a terribly cute posh accent. He wasn't raising your pinky is a thing or not but Patricia doesn't mention it. 

"You've been hurt and you let that pain show, no shame. You are a very honest man," She said, and Trevor almost felt guilty from the insinuation. "Most men cannot say the same for themselves."

Trevor stared into his cup, the mangled image of himself reflecting in the hues of black. It's bullshit, even if she really did believe it, but Trevor still lets himself hear it. He wants to replace the hot teacup with the warmth of her hands and coil into her soothing embrace. To hear how it's never been Trevor's fault, it's been his father's, then his brother's, then his mother's death, then Michael's. 

He could picture Michael rolling his eyes. It stung to think that he could be right about this being a mere manipulated fantasy. 

"This will be hard for everyone," Patricia curled a hand around his arm, an alien gesture that filled Trevor with unfamiliar warmth, and she looked at him with a crystal clear gaze. "Especially you. But I still have a responsibility to my husband, and that does not scare me anymore. I'm not sure if it ever did."

"You have a responsibility to your heart too," he tries sheepishly, and it sounded much better in his head but he keeps going, "I know family obligations are all the rave but the singular connections- our connection- that means a lot to me." 

She returned his affections with a small smile that reached her eyes, and Trevor knew he'll never be ready for it to leave. "And I will never forget you. But you also have a responsibility to your own heart, and I can't let you give that away for me." 

Behind them, Trevor heard something clash from inside the trailer, followed by Michael's cursing. It almost ruined the serenity; almost. Her hand squeezed before leaving his arm and returning to her teacup. Trevor diverted his gaze to his yard, and the banged-up fence and remnants of trash littered across it. Sandy Shores, for whatever reason, felt smaller than ever. "Well if I just need to follow my heart, I feel like I'm already there." 

\- 

Ron occupied the truck on the road behind Michael as he watched through comically large, clunky binoculars. He was masked carefully by the trees, while Michael had an eye out on top of a grassy hill, a fair distance away from the site. His heart beat softly. Steadily. The sky above had settled into a deep mauve, the weather still and warm. The perfect weather for a lynching. 

“I’m gone for a month and look what happens, Ron. They crawl back and multiply like cock-sucking-roaches.” Trevor’s boisterous voice crackles through the earphone's static. The weird friend quickly adds some sort of skittish excuse while Michael surveyed two particular men, both fairly large, one of them lighting a cigarette while the other sipped on a can and watched. They both abided by the back patio of the cottage Trevor had spoken of in his debriefing. 

“The sniper's a little extreme, don't you think?” Michael commented in an attempt to distance himself from the situation. He was comfortable in his position, keeping a trained eye through the scope, his finger loose on the trigger. The little voice in his head was just as, if not more persistent than before, and he knows full well if this goes sour it's his ass on the line. He reassures himself that it's not his gig, it's Trevor's and it's his ineffective planning that will be under scrutiny. 

"You had your pick of the litter, porkchop. I'm heading to the back, you know what to do." Michael had a clean line, and with one thin breath through his nostrils he swiftly took out both of the men with a single shot, the bullet piercing through one skull to the next. Their bodies fell limp over the stairs like rag dolls. He watched Trevor hoist himself over the rail before sliding through the back door. 

Michael breathed again, loose and steady like he had trained himself to do. There's a soft ringing somewhere in the distance, and he notes that it's not the blood rushing to his head nor the beat of his heart, but a dangling wind chime by the cabin's front door. The gentle song resonates throughout the area, similar to alarm bells. It's the only warning he gets before he's drawn back to reality.

It started with a gunshot only moments after Trevor disappeared from view. It's loud and uncanny, quickly drawing the attention of the neighboring men scattered around the site. Michael held his fire, closely watching a few of the bikers cautiously surround the house. Perhaps it wouldn't be enough for them to investigate. After all, there are more than a dozen drunken men with guns, it's expected for at least one of them to go off without foul play involved. 

He didn't believe himself either, and soon followed a burst of dangerous and unrhythmic gunfire. Already a few men charge into the cabin while others trained their guns towards the doors. Despite the distance he could hear the carried whispers of 'Trevor Phillips' amongst the crowd. 

"Dammit Trevor, they know!" He shouted into the mic before biting his tongue. He couldn't let himself panic, he just had to believe Trevor can handle them himself. He began his rounds, the first few taking an unfortunate dive off the balcony and splatting gruesomely onto the ground. He took notice of the following men's gaze tracing upward, their speculation of Trevor's presence leading them astray. Michael takes care of them in quick succession. 

Ron's voice broke through the speaker, "See if you can look through the windows, something is going on in there!" 

"I got it," Michael responded curtly, focusing through an old stained window. He almost forgot Ron was even there. With a trained eye, he makes out a man with his back against the wall, his gun pointed down as he reloaded. His figure was lanky for a biker. It took less than a second before he got a clean shot. 

"To your left, Michael! By the blue trailer!" 

He repositioned his aim. One of them was starting up their bike. Michael wasn't sure if they posed a threat or if they were simply running, but he fired anyway. Leave no room for complications. Clean and simple, clean and simple. 

"Nicely done! Do you see him?"

Michael is about to concentrate back onto the house before he hears two bullets fire past him, one of them grazing his arm and both just as deafening. It took Michael by surprise, and when he quickly locates the suspect running up the hill, he heard another one shoot off close behind him. The man dropped to the ground. 

Michael twisted around, his heart beating violently in his chest, only to see Ron lower his own gun with shakey hands.

"Good aim," Michael huffed, breathing some air back into his lungs. Ron nodded bashfully. 

He turns back to his piece, concentrating on the house. "Trevor? T? You there?" 

A few more of The Lost jumped onto their bikes, driving on the opposite road leading to Michael. He let them go, only shooting one searching in his direction. The adrenaline was still coursing through his veins, potent and addictive. "T?" 

"Yeah brother, I'm here," Trevor responded, and Michael felt himself ease even more back into motion. He can't hide the grin on his face, even when a shot was heard in the background static. "I'm just about out of ammunition though. How's your end?"

He searched the area for movement or gunfire. Other than a few lose papers and dirt occasionally drifting in the wind, it was still. "We're clear here. Did you get what you came for?" 

"Are you talking to Trevor Phillips?" 

Any hint of pleasure quickly dropped away. Ron stood stalk still by his side just as unprepared and flabbergasted as he was. Michael, despite his body feeling like it had caught on fire, slowly inched away from the scope, only peeking at the man from the corner of his eye. Except it's hardly a man, judging by the biker's frame and young face. He had a gun pointed between him and Ron, his hand not quite as steady as someone with the high ground should be. A rookie, Michael thinks. 

"Kid, unless you got a deathwish, you better put that down," Micheal said, not yet turning to the biker. He kept his voice low and assertive, but not yet aggressive. 

"Do you work for him? Do you even know who he is?" He entreated, his speech agile and jumpy. Definitely a rookie. "He's psycho, y-you know. Pure fucking evil!"

Michael let go of the gun, his palms open towards the kid as he backed further away. Looking at the biker directly he can make out that the leather jacket was a little too broad for him, perhaps a hand-me-down. His jeans were torn in the way he assumes young punkasses would wear them. The kid's eyes dart around nervously at the movement, and Michael makes sure to not break away contact completely. "Listen, you don't want to do this. We got guys all over the park. We're just trying to retrieve some goods your friends stole from Trevor Industries." 

The boy choked out a mirthless laugh and thrust the gun forward. "We have fuck all to do with Trevor Industries. He just loves fucking slaughtering us." 

"See, that's not what I heard-" Michael began, before abruptly halting. The boy's eyes don't falter, and Michael's heart sinks. It clicks, all of sudden, like a shot through the chest. His jaw tightens as he tilted his head to peer at Ron, his hands turning into fists. "...Ron, what is Trevor after."

He hears Ron falter behind him. "I- uh. It wasn't an actual- item, per se. It's more of uh, a business strategy we're implementing-" 

"Are you fucking kidding me?" 

"Hey, don't fucking move!" The man cocked his gun, quickly halting Michael from swinging around. He raised both his hands up again. "I don't give a shit what this is. The man you're working for is a menace. He- he fucking killed my friends, my brothers-"

Michael could see the boy coming undone- the jittery movement, this long hesitance before the kill, the sweat building on his forehead as he tries to cool down his nerves. He doesn't know what he's doing. It vaguely recalls him of his first job back home, how out of place he had felt. A dumbfuck young kid, just trying to be a man for once. Michael leveled down to him. "Listen, kid, you don't want to do this-"

"Fuck you! He killed my friends-"

"And is that all you got?" He errupted, staring the boy down. That first job Michael ever did had went well. It was clean and he finally had some loose change in his pocket, and it was a rush. A high so unlike any thrill he ever got knocking down rival schools during football season or stealing booze from his dad. That job was enough to convince him that it was all he ever needed. A never ending flow of cash, a bought babe by his right, and a trigger to pull. How naive that young man was. "Because it better be. It's not just me the end of that gun you're pointing kid, you pull that trigger, he won't just come for you, he'll come for everyone you know! And I mean every-fucking-one and every-fucking-thing you love." 

The kid doesn't respond, but Michael knew the gears were turning in his head. He lowered his voice as if he were approaching a bewildered animal, and he could feel Ron's stare at the back of his neck. "You're still young. This life won't do anything for you, trust me."

"But- No, I-I-" The biker stammered, the gun still locked in position. Michael took a step forward, his palms still open. He thinks to knock it out of his hand now, but the boy's head suddenly jerked to the side, the rest of his body following as he collapsed to the sound of a bang. Blood pooled by his feet, mixing into the dirt. 

Michael heard Ron's sigh of relief from behind him. "I thought you were out of bullets?" 

"I said just about," Trevor responded stiffly, not giving the body a second glance. There's barely a mark on him, if you ignore the bits of human remains smeared onto his clothes and skin. He hardly acknowledges both of them as he continues his path down the hill, Ron quickly on his heels. He doesn't stop looking at the body, the blood oozing out of his head wound with tranquility. Michael knows the blood splattered hard enough to hit him, can feel the drops lingering on his skin. He was so close to him. So, so close. Despite the dessert heat, he feels sicky cold. "Michael, you coming or what?" 

His mind locks onto the feeling. It took a few seconds before he could make himself move. He stumbled down the hill, careless about his footing as life came back to him in seething waves. 

"You son of a bitch," He called out, and Trevor turns back at him with such little regard as he opened the car door. "Was he telling the truth? Was this just some fucking massacre?" 

Trevor scoffed, "If he wasn't telling the truth, would it _not_ be a massacre?" 

Michael pointed a threatening finger towards him, and if it weren't for the car in between them he can promise himself he would and could throw a fist right now. "Don't play fucking games with me, T. I have a family I need to get back too-"

"It's always your family with you. Last time I heard, they weren't after you or your family. You chose to come with us." Trevor points out, leaning an arm on the roof. Ron hesitantly ducks into the back, cautiously not to bring any attention to himself.

"Because you told me they were robbing you!"

"Oh ho, yeah, and you're just so concerned about the prosperity of uncle T's business, right? Wow Mikey, I had no idea you were capable of supporting anyone but yourself!"

Michael leaned forward as well, finding his response immediately. "If it gets you away from me, I'll support anything you do."

"Fuck you Michael," Trevor pointed a finger back, his venomous eyes narrowing. Michael could feel the heat within them, and suddenly he's not feeling so confident. "Only one person had control of that sniper, and it wasn't me brother." 

The words floated in the air as Michael tried to come up with a retort. Trevor then ducked into the passenger side, forcing him to drop it and bitterly follow suit.

-

Michael reckoned the night couldn’t get worse. He drove absent-mindedly, his hands just following the motions. If he took a wrong turn or ran a red light no one mentions it. Trevor doesn't play music and Ron stares out the window, and Michael is just grateful for the silence. His can't stop, for whatever reason, recycling the same scene over and over again, the image of the kid shaking like a leaf before going rigid to the ground burnt into his mind. He focused on that feeling, that bleeding moment that held him in place, that took him by surprise. A vision of his young self, unsure whether to bite the bullet or shoot first, just to die by the hands of Trevor fucking Phillips. 

Only one person had control of that sniper. He cursed at himself. 

They're not even halfway back before Michael's frown managed to deepen. He's only hoping, if no one mentions it, maybe it's not actually happening. Of course, Trevor addressed it first, "Why are we slowing down?" 

"I think," Ron spoke up, attempting to peer down the window, "one of our tires got shot." 

"When the fuck did that happen?" Trevor twisted his head around, glaring furiously at Ron. "Ron…!"

The smaller man stuttered, "I had to leave to help Michael- I guess a bullet might've…" he trailed off, nervously retreating into the corner of Michael's car as Trevor began to spill threats and profanities. It's blatant and vulgar but it goes ignored by Michael as he heavies on the pedal, watching the road move slower and slower until it eventually came to a steady halt. Michael can feel himself age by the second as he rubbed his tired, glowered face, inhaling sharply. A moment goes by before Trevor breaks it. 

"Well, we're out, we did it," He chimed in an attempt to ignite the more celebratory side of Michael whenever they would finish a job, and Michael wanted so badly to rip into him just for that. For someone so observant he was always god awful at reading the room. Maybe in his little world this would be a cause for a celebration, and they should hurry home and pop bottles inside Trevor's shitty, moldy trailer and call each other out good-naturedly. But that's a goddamn fairytale, reserved for white trash with no life to get back too and psychopaths, and Trevor fits into both.

Michael wasn't wired that way. He strived for better, at every turn. He gave up a life of crime for his wife, gave up his former best friend for his children, and ended the life of a partner for all of the safety of all of them. Michael fought nail and tooth to leave that world behind him, there was no way he was going back. That's Michael's truth. 

Unfortunately, as usual, he had a very short selection of people to blame for his current predicament. It had been so easy pulling that trigger, only miles away from where they could see him. It was so easy watching them fall over like dominos, landing limblessly in the way Michael recognized very well. He leaned his head onto the wheel, ignoring Trevor and unable to look anywhere else except through the warm darkness of his hands. Trevor didn't dwell on him either; he wouldn't let himself. It was too pathetic, too wrong of a sight. 

Trevor threw the door open as the tension became suffocating and he beckoned Ron to do the same. 

"Get up Mikey. Get out."

The night sky cast its shadow over San Andreas. Trevor could tell, over the weeks, that the sight was growing on Michael. He always had a good eye for these sorts of things. Sunsets and beaches and whatever the shit, as if the world was his set and he was framing the scene. In some ways, it made Michael's choice of location for his hibernation all of more disappointing. Michael's love for the world comes from a television screen; the nuclear family, the moral type of crime, the right type of love. Trevor could bet that it hardly required any effort for him to blend into the superficiality of LS, with Amanda's fake tits and unhappy eyes, and neglected children raised by hipsters and pornstars. And Michael; full of shit. 

When he didn't budge from his seat, Trevor gently knocked on the car's roof. "C'mon, M. Move along. Did all that hamburger grease finally clogged your art-"

"Will you shut the fuck up?" Michael snapped, his voice tight and shrill as he hit the steering wheel on the last word. "Just shut the fuck up, Trevor!"

Trevor tossed his hands up in surrender, giving some distance between him and the car. "Ron, call Chef for a ride."

Ron jumped at his name and quickly complied.

Michael examined his forearm, the place where the bullet grazed him and left a small wound. The sight of blood pissed him off more, especially when he saw that Trevor came out just fine. It would most likely leave a scar. He ignored it for now, favoring a cigarette from the top compartment before hauling himself out. He made a point to avoid looking at Trevor as he leaned on the car door and lit it, the first inhale a heavenly distraction. He recounted the steps he took to get in this position, one bad decision after another. "How the fuck did we ever pull anything off?" 

"Hey, hey. We got away clean, M. That was a solid job," Trevor answered hastily, before gazing at Michael's arm. "If that hurt you, you're a bigger pussy than I thought. The lady Patricia can check that out back at headquarters."

"Fuck off, I'm not complaining. Maybe you should get yourself checked out. In a fucking hospital. For lunatics," he responded, taking another long inhale before grunting, "And that- that shitstorm, was not fucking clean. That was a fucking kid you shot back there. Tracy's age."

Trevor remained standoffish, unfazed by Michael's grievance. "He knew what he was doing."

Michael rolled the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, the anger he tried to swallow down coming back again like vomit. He wished that he had remained silent. Trevor wouldn't understand, couldn't, and now he felt burnt again. "Fuck you."

"We were kids too, M!" Trevor says, and Michael finally looks at him. "Back then, his age. We knew what we were getting ourselves into." 

"No, we didn't! That's why I fucking got out, Trevor. Something that not a lot of kids like us could fucking say. The game, Trevor, the game-

"Not a game-"

"It's rigged. It means fucking nothing, brings you nothing. It's a fucking death sentence," He waved a hand behind him. "And you look like death froze over."

Trevor opened his mouth for his retort, but after a moment of hesitance Michael considered it a win, turning on his back to resume his smoke.

"Well, you don't look so great yourself porkchop!" Trevor belatedly called out, and Ron tries to say something but Trevor barks at him to shut up. 

It's a long venture back home. 

-

The bickering never ended, but it simmered down into deflated jabs, neither one of them carrying enough passion to be angry. Most people would be afraid to stand between the two ticking bombs, but Mrs. Madrazo hardly flinched as they raised their voices back and forth. It was unlike the way Patricia ever let herself get with Martin, but it was familiar. Her refutes were always more subtle; interrupting his meetings or using a particular pet name in front of guests. 

Trevor had insisted he would take care of Michael, claiming that he would be too much of a hassle for her. That evoked a sense of home as well. It seemed no matter what Martin would do, she would always come back to him, ready to bandage and kiss away every mark he brought home. She was folding Trevor's laundry in his bedroom, shaking her head after each juvenile insult thrown and an even shallower comeback rebutted. 

"If Brad were here, he'd be embarrassed to be seen with you," Trevor quipped as he pulled the thread through his former partner's skin, his attempt to be gentle going unbeknownst to Michael. "And it's fucking Brad."

"If only he were here," Michael sighed, schooling his expression and exhaling through his nose. The bathroom was a tight squeeze, with hardly any room for either of them to move. The concentrated smell of disinfectant masked the fetor of shit and Michael made a mental note to appreciate Madrazo more for bulldozing through Trevor's grime. He sat on the toilet seat, leaning away from Trevor's underbelly and thinking of the attractiveness of a shower. Trevor then doused a splash of alcohol on his wound, and Michael yelped again. 

"Hey now, he'll be back. Next exit we see we're busting him. I'm telling ya, Mikey." Trevor replied as if he was trying to reassure him. He could not make out if Trevor was just trying to get under his skin or if he genuinely believed himself. 

He tugged his arm away, gently testing out the stitches. "And then what?" 

"And then? We get the family back together! Lester, Brad, me and you," Trevor closed the cabinet above the sink, neglecting the equipment still laying around. He gestured to the bottle of rubbing alcohol. "I'll leave that one out for you sugar."

"Ha." 

He was too exhausted to go and fix himself a proper drink. He plopped himself down on the couch, kicking his feet up on the table. The night weighed heavily on him. The living room was tidy, probably the first time it had ever been taken care of since Trevor bought the joint. Michael examined the orderliness of the counter, the absence of dust or scraps, the remotes lined up together on top of some distasteful magazines. 

Michael's skimming lingered on the pistol that Trevor had casually discarded.

"We can pull it off alone, but with the insider firepower from your FIB buddies, he's practically a free man already," Trevor called from behind him as he rummaged through his kitchen. “Just like the good ol’ days, ‘cept this time I’ll be prepared for when you betray us again."

The trailer was dim, the meager yellow lights from the bedroom and kitchen only casting shadows and shaping obscurations across the living room. Trevor was going on some tirade in the background but all Michael could hear was his shallow heartbeat bleeding into his ears, his focus still trained on the gun. It's as if he was being set up. Or maybe God himself planted it there, as a teasing hint for him to decipher. 

_Are you going to shoot me just to keep your secret safe?_

Michael's nerves were shot. He does not feel himself reaching over nor the brass material grazing his fingertips. He was dumbfounded as he held it, not quite sure what idea he’s entertaining as he weighs it in his hand. It feels warm; recently used. He pointed it out the window and pretended to fire, making a little noise as he did it. 

_Only one person controlled that sniper._

The sky was pitch black, and he could see himself in the reflection. His hair was disheveled and he could make out a little bit of stubble coming back. His shirt was unbuttoned with a little bit of chest exposed, and he aimed a little harder at the window. He asked himself if, after all this time, he was always aiming at the wrong person. 

Michael caught a blur of pink in his preverbal vision and it momentarily snapped him out of his trance. He peered over to the bedroom and met Mrs. Madrazo's studying gaze, a concerned frown on her face as she clutched a shirt in her hand. He doesn't know how long she’s been watching. Michael pressed his lips together, tossing the gun passively onto the table and didn't look back at her. He felt abashed as he ignored the ever growing pit in his stomach.

Thankfully the moment doesn't last any longer as Trevor’s arm reaches out from behind his head, handing him a glass full of what Michael recognizes as the syrupy bronze of fine whiskey. He takes it graciously as Trevor steals a spot next to him. 

“To free men,” Trevor says, and Michael lifted his glass in unison, before swallowing it down in its entirety.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank u guys for ur kind words. i really enjoy these characters, and the fact that this fandom is so positive and has so many talented and creative people makes it even better.  
> Let me know what u think, kudos r always appreciated. The last chapter (at least i think it'll be lol) will be coming at the end of this month or the beginning of the next.


	5. Ghosts

In the twilight, the consequences of yesterday and tomorrow were nothing more than distractions, shallow and unpresent like the rest of the world. The furniture and assortments of items rested still, all holding their breath, their stories and colors only muted hues in the inky night. Simple silence was unnatural and hard to come by for Michael, but for Trevor, he never had to seek it; its hollow void would find him, engulf him and sink into his every pore. How ironic was it then, that he was on the lookout from dangerous men and yet in the long waves of desert sand, in a shared bed, the running was over? 

Amphetamines and paid company and relentless violence were foregone, in its place- soft careless snoring. The happy-fat-man-without-a-care-in-the-world kind of snoring that Trevor had decided was annoyingly endearing. It was perfectly suited for Michael to be a snorer. Not just because of all those extra pounds blocking his airway, but because Michael always had to be the center of attention, so why would he expect any different now?

He can make out the dark silhouette of his back, the dip between his solid shoulder and his head resting against a pillow that has been flattened with use. The figure was rigid and still. He wasn't facing him, as he never did, his figure appearing as a warm shadow. Trevor could reach out if he wanted to, but during these obscure hours, he’s not sure if his hand would simply go through him. 

The soft whistle of his breathing and his body heat radiating off him in waves was reassuring enough. Trevor could tell Michael was as awake as he was due to the silence yet again found him vulnerable, but he doesn’t think he should be the one to break it. Not after yesterday.

Trevor knew when he fucked up. He didn’t need Michael to say it, he just watched him occupy one drink after another, talking without ever saying anything until he passed out, in which he had to then drag him into bed. For a brief moment, he considered leaving Michael there and giving Patricia the spot next to him. He bet she would be a little more giving, a little more receptive. Or maybe not- Trevor's not an idiot, he knows he's not as charming as he was when he was younger. Not as charming or as snake-like as fucking Michael. 

But these nights were precious. They weren’t Trevor or Michael, but only two people, secluded from their roles. How many days left did he have, until this became too much? To pretend to trust each other as they laid side by side, to share the same air and the same bed, so close they can hear each other breathe. Trevor reached out without thought, just grazing Michael's shoulder blade. With each breath, the fabric of his worn tank-top tugged and brushed against the pads of his fingers. It's terrifying, the electricity shooting through his hand and down his arm, his heart picking up just a little faster. Not a ghost after all.

He wanted so badly then, just to comfort Michael with his body. He pressed his hand firmly against him. The soft pull of fabric, the heat, the subtle rise and fall. It shouldn’t feel so good, so tender and comforting. It wouldn't be enough to fix a broken heart, but it could be enough for a night like this.

Michael didn’t respond. Trevor paid it no mind, his hand smoothing over the surface until he felt the nip of hot skin against his own. His heart fluttered with something he couldn't put into words. A slight giddiness. A boldness. He tested out the waters, three fingers gently prodding the lower end of his neck. He can feel a hint of a shiver though he can't tell if it was him or Michael but it doesn't stop him from tracing upwards until he's running a hand gently through Michael's thick, black hair. Trevor doesn't even feel jealous. He's in love. 

He maneuvered himself with delicacy, savoring the closeness. It was the closest thing to intimacy, even if a little one sided, but that was nothing new. Michael still wasn't snoring. If the stillness was anything to go by, he was holding his breath.

Trevor let his hand fall away dejectedly and waited, but Michael doesn't move away or drop a hint for him to back off. Trevor only half expected him too, but Michael was never one for confrontation, not with him and not with himself. 

He goes back to lukewarm touches, slowly caressing Michael's sides before resting on his hip, just below his belly. The hitch of his breathing doesn't go unnoticed. He nudged himself closer, and then after a beat brought himself only an inch apart. He pulled his arm back up, deciding to simply lay it over his shoulder, and he moved to press his chest against him. A part of him wondered if it would be enough. He already knew it wasn't for him, not all could be healed after a single night. 

But would it be enough to fan the ineffaceable fires that brewed inside of Michael, still lingering in that hollow hide of the man? He knew the old Townley was still there. His skills were unmatched, hitting each target like he always could. The pathetic victim mentality, edged on by his juvenile hero complex. The selfish inability to think outside of himself, though perhaps that look he carried all day after the biker fell to the ground challenged that- but not in a way that matters. 

He changed, but not in any way that could matter.

"Just stop, Trevor." 

Like lighting a flame in the middle of a cold and wet winter storm, the flame went out quickly.

Trevor shifted away uncomfortably, his senses coming back to him. He paused, tongue in cheek. "You got something better to do tonight?" 

When Michael wouldn't respond he pulled himself onto his back, if anything just to hide his bruised ego, forthwith an acute awareness of his rejection. He kept his gaze glued to the water-stained ceiling. Michael only slipped further into the bed, curling a little tighter, leaving the silence deafening in his wake until the sound of snores soon inundated the room. Trevor should accept the night for what it was- a shaky resemblance of purgatory, just not one as nearly as denuded as he had hope for. The drapes remained lowered, their masks still on with their cards kept tight to their chests. 

The air that once soothed now only carried the reminisce of whiskey and prudent cologne, and the musk of two sweaty, unwashed men. He doesn't notice his foot nodding back and forth, antsy. His hands scratched at his thighs, dug into his palms, curled and uncurled. Antsy, antsy, antsy.

The remaining afterglow of a casual drug binge had dimmed, leaving his body heavier and more hollow than before. His enterprise and Michael's need for attention only gave him enough distractions to delay the inevitable, but as Michael's ignorant snores stretch, it ate away at him feverishly. 

He laid stretched thin, yearning for his completion. Whether that came in the form of warmth and electric shocks running down his arm, or through a haze so high he was flying. 

Tonight it was a clear choice. 

He stumbled in the dark, the walls guiding him from one room to the next, the general sleep deprivation straining his memory and patience. His hand dipped into the small alcove that was his bathroom, and from there he came alive, having done this enough times it was clockwork. His hands reached into the sink cabinet, feeling out for those sweet hypodermic instruments. In his careless grabbing, he brushes over the baggie, the thin plastic crinkling as it drops to the floor.

He turned on the faucet, the drizzling water as loud as coursing rivers in the dead of night. He wets the piece of cotton, places it in his spoon. Syringe in hand, Trevor crumbled, his legs weak with anticipation. He sat his ass on the tiled floor and quickly fumbled for the little baggie next to him. There's the sound of squeaking springs from the living room but he's too far absorbed in his ritual to bother checking on the sleeping Patricia. Usually he would take his time, enjoying the process and the count down until pure release, but this wasn't for pleasure. It was him running for the exit. 

Once prepared, he squinted through the darkness, using the risen scars on his skin as a mark to point and shoot. It digs into his skin with a sting, the needle blunt with overuse, and he injects that sweet little chemical into his veins. 

Trevor sighed with satisfaction, his head falling onto the wall behind him. The rush came in an instant. The room was a soft hue of darkness, a deep hole in the world with only himself in it.

Michael's snoring is hardly dulled, but it resounds miles and miles away. His head filled with a hefty haze, his brain going soft like cotton wet and small in his spoon. He felt really fucking good. He felt fucking invincible. He can't help but grin until his shoulder trembled with silent laughter that bled into a croak.

Maybe he had been a bit overzealous. The pressure in his head only continued to get harsher, as if he were stuck deep into the depths of the ocean. He felt laughter ripple through him again, groaning past the tight constricts of his throat, and he pukes. 

-

The sound of gunfire should be just as familiar as crickets in the night, yet it frightened him awake, his hand reflectively moving under his pillow for his pistol. The light flickered on and he pointed at the doorway, finger ready to pull the trigger. 

"About time you wake up," Mrs. Madrazo says, her voice strained. She stood by the doorway, hands wrapped around the belt of one of Trevor's robes. "He is out front."

"Who- Trevor?" Michael groaned, lowering his weapon. Both their faces were fat with sleep, he knew they both couldn't have been out longer than a few hours. He plopped the gun to his side and rubbed his scratchy face, the warmth of his blanket beckoning him back underneath the covers. "He'll be fine, go back to bed."

He was still knuckling his bleary eyes before he received a dull wack at the side of the head. Michael sputtered, startled by how quick Madrazo got to him.

" _¡No hagas esto difícil!_ " She scowled, smacking her hands together in emphasis. She flicked on the lamp on the nightstand and he hisses at the glare. "Help your friend, he needs you. Go, now." 

Michael would probably be more pissed if he weren't a little impressed. Still he remained stubborn and resilient, tucking his head underneath the pillow while Mrs. Madrazo berated him. 

"Just get the neighbor to take care of him," He groaned.

Madrazo whipped the pillow off of him. "I do not know where that man is!"

Another shot struck from outside, along with a raucous collision following the harsh screeching of tires, and Trevor's strung-out and barbaric voice ringing out. There's a gentle blinking glow from outside, the red hue staining the window. That piqued his concern. 

Madrazo hardly faltered at the noise, still eyeing down Michael with conviction. He finally raised his hands in defeat as she shooed him off the bed. He quickly scanned the room for a robe before recalling he didn't quite pack a suitcase, and he refused to borrow anything Trevor owned. 

The first thing he remarked as he halted at the open doorway was the coolness of the midnight air. He stiffened a shiver, regretting his general lack of clothing. It also was hard to miss the nice pair of wheels stuck onto the fence, the door sprung wide open, and as his eyes continued to follow the scene, there was a half-naked Trevor, his hands at the sides of a man's head as he rammed it into the ground, one wet thud at a time. 

He looked like a barbaric caveman.

"Trev- fucking christ-" His body instantly set into motion, hastily sprinting towards the madman. He hooked his arms under Trevor's underarms in an attempt to pull him off, but christ, the man was sturdy. Wiry muscles built into a tight and compact form, and Trevor's skin was damp with sweat, hot enough to burn. Michael only managed to get some leverage when he stumbled on top of him, causing them to both tumble next to the beaten man. 

Michael was quick into action, forcing Trevor to face him and using his full weight to keep him down. He hardly put up much of a fight but Michael still pins him with a forearm across his collar bones. 

"Oh, Mikey, 'bout time you showed up to the party!" Trevor grinned wolfishly.

"Trevor- Trevor what the fuck is happening?" He yelled, the words clunky in his mouth. With only inches apart, Michael saw the mess of fresh blood and grease on his skin, the moon's glint reflecting on his ruined lips. His eyes were wild, darting across Michael's face. Even the deepest hours of the night couldn't conceal how dilated and bloodshot they were. He could feel the pure adrenaline rummaging through him with each tremble of his chest.

"I'm fucking living. Get the fuck off me," He snarled, kicking his legs up in a poor attempt to escape. Michael does not waver. Trevor dropped his head back to the dirt, dramatically rolling his eyes into his head. "Why the fuck- why the fuck do you even care?" 

Michael sucked in his breath. His impatience was beginning to bile up into his nerves, his hands quivering, rage quickening his blood, all while still trying to make sense of the situation. He pushed down harder. "Because you're waking up the whole fucking neighborhood, you lunatic!" 

Trevor bared his teeth, his expression crinkling back into resentment like a light switch. "I'm having a little celebration! That's what you're supposed to do after a good job!"

Michael can smell the blood and acidic vomit on his breath. His temper was flaring. He spat, "Oh yeah, beating a man half to death on your lawn sure looks like fun!"

The other man paused. A sly and cruel grin slowly crawled across his face. "Now, Mikey," He snickered. "When have I ever stopped halfway?"

Michael hardened. "The fuck does that mean?"

Trevor only wiggled his eyebrows, and Michael felt like he was going to be sick. He twisted around to look at the man still lying in the bloodied dirt, quiet as the dead of night. The instant his attention faltered Trevor kicked a knee up, hitting him in a particularly soft spot.. He groaned, recoiling through the unexpected blow but managing to block another swing when Trevor tore out of his hold. 

"Will you- fucking- T-" 

"Get the FUCK off me," He snarled, and Michael wrestled to take his arms. He's sweating through his own shirt now, from both the exertion and the fever coming from the overheating car next to them. 

Michael managed to catch both his wrists, pressing them just over his head. Other than the harsh rising and falling of his chest, Trevor went stiff again, his manic eyes boring into his own. "So what's the plan, Michael? Now that you got me down here?" 

Michael doesn't loosen his hold. He licked the salt on his lips. He could barely hear the bits of distinct wildlife or the rare car passing over the sound of both their panting and how heavy his heart was pounding. He swallowed, taking a moment to breathe shallowly through his nose. "Can you just. Just tell me what happened here?"

Trevor leaned his head upwards. "Target practicing." 

"And?"

"That's all there is to it, amigo." He says. Before Michael could even respond he rammed his head into the pavement. Michael recoiled at the sudden onslaught.

"What the fuck-"

"Get the fuck off me, Michael! Get the fuck off me!"

"Or what, you're going to smash your skull open if I don't?" 

"I said gethefuckoffme!"

Michael swore, scrambling off as quick as he could. He watched bewildered as Trevor smirked triumphantly and ventured to do the same, before wincing and laying back on the ground. Michael rolled his eyes and extended a hand but Trevor waved him off. "I think I just gave myself a concussion."

"Oh yeah?" Michael glowered, stepping back from him. "You sure, or is it just whatever the fuck you've taken? Which by the way, I told you I didn't want to see that."

Trevor touched the top of his head, prodding it to catch any bleeding. "See what?"

"See you shoot up! I'm not dealing with that bullshit! I don't wanna fucking see it." Michael exclaimed, his breathing shaky. He glanced at the body next to them, the man's mouth slack open and eyes devoid of life. Completely motionless. He must have been at least forty, maybe forty-five, and from Los Santos if the trendy clothing was anything to go by. Another deep breath. "I don't want to watch you kill yourself either. Or anyone else, for that matter."

Trevor scoffed. "What, you're afraid I'll do a better job than you?" 

Michael made a noise of frustration, biting down some type of remark. He had to turn his back on Trevor entirely, without dignifying him with a response. A better use of his time right now would be to examine the victim and his banged-up vehicle, and so he tries hashing out a plan for where to hide and destroy them both. 

Trevor's voice comes out weak. "Don't treat it like it's crap Mikey. We both know you want me dead."

Michael clicked his jaw. "That is crap, T." 

"So then, entertain me. What was the plan Michael? Was I supposed to be locked up with Brad while you enjoyed the rest of your life?" Michael looked over against his better judgment as Trevor stared earnestly into the sky. "Or be pressed into the dirt by the ol' great Michael Townley?"

Michael licked his lips again, shaking his head. He can feel his blood boil once over again. It all wasn't fucking fair, wasn't his fucking fault, and yet here he was. He curtly turned back to the car, trying to flood away the feeling. He just had to get through this. He just had to stay calm. "We're not talking about this now."

"Why the fuck not?" 

Motherfucker. Michael threw his hands up into the air. 

"Because! Because there's a dead man on the lawn! And I'm trapped in the middle of fuckwhere, I have to sleep next to you every night and I haven't seen my family in fucking weeks!" 

"Boo-hoo. I haven't seen mine in ten years," He shoved his thumb to his chest. "And one of them is a snake fucking asshole and the other is still in the can. Courtesy of the snake fucking asshole!" 

"Ah, fuck, T," Michael forced himself to breathe evenly through his nose again, his lips pressed into a thin line. He counted up to ten and down from ten. He was still looking at the crime scene, his hands on his hips, hoping he could block out Trevor's incessant rambling with the horror images in front of him. He can't. He can't ignore the feeling of Trevor's watchful gaze.

He hummed softly. "I didn't realize you were so close to Brad." 

Trevor made a sound of dismissal, waving his hand in the air. "It's not about that- it's about loyalty, Michael. And what you did just to live your precious little lie." 

Michael went cold. He can feel his hairs prickling upon his neck and he glances back at Trevor, who had perched himself up on his elbows and was studying him. He kicked his feet apart, tighty-whitey on full display, slouching down as if to get more comfortable. Like watching Michael sweat under the light was entertaining enough for him.

"So then, how about some honesty for once. Just between us bros. And that corpse over there but he's definitely dead." Trevor asked. Michael closed his eyes tightly, feeling the heat within them as he tried not to feel or look guilty. It wasn't an unfair request. He deserved that much. 

But fuck, he can't give it to him. He can't even give it to himself. 

He knew everything he did was in good conscience. Not even Trevor could convince him otherwise. Amanda deserved to feel safe and a real place to call home. His kids deserved a chance to thrive without cruel violence shaping them. His former life was given up for greater opportunities.

To make an honest man out of himself he had to cut a few corners, step on a few fingers, and kill. Kill a lot. And yet here he wakes up each time after nightmare after nightmare, spitting lie after lie. He lies to Amanda, lies to his kids. Lies to himself as he sits by the poolside, thinking on how he saved the day. And now he's unable to move a muscle without Trevor's vengeful eyes or the FIB's mighty hand interfering. 

Trevor then grinned without joy or bite. A grin that did little to hide the broken man with too much shit pumping in his blood and a mild concussion. He knew it was just the drugs making his eyes gloss over, but it doesn't make it any less difficult to look at him. 

"Why is it that I thought you were dead for all those years," Trevor spoke, his voice light, "And when I finally find you, you still act like you're a ghost?"

Michael opened and closed his mouth. There was no string of words he could put together to make _that_ go away. He couldn't look away either, even as his eyes burned warmer. A part of him wanted to just give up. Tell him everything, whether he wanted to hear it or not. 

He waited until he could trust himself to speak before gesturing at the body, "We- we gotta do something about this."

"I told you he's already- oh, right. Laying low." Trevor rubbed his fingers together, watching the grime roll off his thumb.  
"There's a tarp in the back. I'll gouge out his face, you get his fingers and toes."

"No, god, we're just going to dump him somewhere." 

"Suit yourself, porkchop." 

Trevor eventually found his footing, only helping when Michael struggled to unload the body into the nameless man's trunk. It's a tight squeeze, Trevor having to sit on the lid until it snapped into place. 

It had been a long time since he had to dispose of someone. Whenever the bodies fell he never lingered longer than he had to. Hiding a body meant some sort of failure on his part. A mission gone wrong. And so Michael watched perplexed as Trevor gave a little bounce on the hood, still hardly clothed as if this was just a Thursday night. As if this was normal and okay.

Maybe Trevor was right, he was getting soft.

They both manage to get into the vehicle without egging each other any further. Trevor texted Ron where they're heading. Michael did his best to swallow down the heavy sense of guilt on his shoulders to focus on the task at hand.

"You're sick," Michael murmured once he twisted the keys, still lodged into the keyhole. The car felt gross, the scent and interior unfamiliar. Used coffee cups and lit out cigarettes were kicked under the seats, a rosary hung around the rearview mirror, old crumpled receipts stuffed in the cup holders. Michael wondered how many hours each day did he stay in this car. How much was it a part of his life?

"Show me some fucking respect Michael, if it weren't for my generosity you'd be sleeping on the sidewalk getting bumfucked by coyotes and the homeless population."

He glanced at Trevor. "I meant the vomit on your shirt. Do you need a hospital?"

"Are you kidding me? I know what I'm doing." 

"You sure about that T?" 

"'Never felt better in my life."

"There's a medical center only three clicks away..."

"Je-he-sus, M, I think I know what works for my body. Where were you the last ten years, when I was digging into dumpsters to find something to eat? Or when I had to dismember that real estate agent and ate his goddamn eyes! Or when we were drinking and snorting crystal all those years, and now you're trying to tell me that maybe my lifestyle is a little eccentric? You always know what's best, right Michael?"

"Oh cut the dramatics," Michael said, tired and exasperated. "I take it back, no hospital on earth can help you."

Trevor wrinkled his nose. "Hey, I wasn't the only one snorting away."

"I'm clean."

"You're an alcoholic, M. And not even the fun kind."

Michael turned onto the pavement, drowsiness catching back up to him. It was after 4 am, the streets of Blaine Country still wholly dark. Trevor tapped his fingers on the door side, his body still restless. The tapping should be annoying but instead he finds himself nodding to the rhythm while he replayed the last thirty minutes in his head. 

His phone goes off once he makes it past Trevor's little town. He doesn't think as he answers it, his body just reacting.

"I'm calling in to check on the militia cargo. I'm starting to get antsy, are we doing this or not?" Lester's nasally voice breaks through, and the familiar steadiness of it calms him.

The Paleto Score, another example of an opportunity being squandered by the FIBS. He wouldn't be scheming if they weren't twisting his arm, but knowing that he could and will get well over the needed amount with his skills, it's ridiculous. He's underpaid and underappreciated. 

"We got a buddy of ours checking it out. They should be dropping off soon this week." He confirmed, and Lester hung up not a beat after. Michael did the same, before tossing his phone behind him. He was so tired. 

Trevor stopped tapping. "Was that the boy wonder?" 

"Hm?" Michael steered the wheel leisurely, sliding over lanes. "Franklin? No, I told him not to contact me while I'm out here. Unless it's important."

Trevor nodded sagely. "And it's definitely not the family, and all the friends you have are here right now so I'm guessing... Lesty."

Michael inhales. "Yeah." 

They drive the next twenty or so minutes in gentle silence, both just waiting for the sky to muddy into lighter blues. Eventually Trevor amused himself with working the radio and it didn't take long before Michael had to tell him to knock it off. In protest, he kicked his boots up onto the glove compartment, showing off his bare and marked legs. Michael only then remarked that they were both still mostly in their sleeping garments. Trevor of course took pride in it, completely unperturbed by his partial nudity. It shouldn't be bothering Michael either, having been sleeping next to him nearly every night like this, but he still makes a point not to look.

Michael could tell they were getting close to their destination as they ascended up the dirt roads. 

"What's your deal with Franklin again?" Trevor asked as he stared down at his muddied boots. "You uh, becoming one of those virtual signaling suburbans, adopting the less fortunate and ethnically distant to feel good about yourself? Fuel your little complex?" Trevor looks at him. "Your son's too much like you, 'reminds you how much of a failure you are-" 

"Whoa whoa, where is all this coming from?" Michael said. "Franklin came to me. And he's a good kid, I just want to help him out. He's got a lot of potential."

He hummed thoughtfully. "And Jimmy, since we're being honest, not the bright young man you envisioned, hm?" Trevor said before counting on his fingers. "'Takes the easy way out. Blames his problems on others. Quick to self indulge. Am I… ringing any bells or should I keep listing-" 

"No, you can shut the fuck up now," Michael snapped. "Big words from a guy with no fucking kids. What does that say about you?"

"Bold of you to assume I don't have little Trevors everywhere. Just because I don't know...." Trevor says, before clearing his throat. "It means I'm a free man."

He snorted at that. Free. The cost of freedom being goddamn lonely. Michael doesn't say anything more in hopes for the conversation to end. They drive for a little while longer, before rolling up into a secluded area on a sparsely green hill.

Michael parked by the edgeside and shut off the engine. Neither of them make the first move to get out. They both understood what came next now. They're going to push the car down the hill, and if it all goes to plan, the victim will be known as a man that simply vanished without a trace. His own family will never know. They may never find peace.

My god, he's really gone soft. 

"You ever ask yourself, maybe if you didn't skip town," Trevor starts, not seeming to be able to read Michael's distress, his thoughts still hanging onto their last subject. "Maybe Jimmy would've been a lot more like Franklin?" 

"Back off. I love my kid." 

"Yeah. And you love what you did to him?"

Michael scoffed, and he reached out to open the door. His hand hesitates on the handle.

What Michael did to him?

"I love Jimmy," he says, and he means it too. He loves the kid. He would do anything to keep him safe.

"But." Michael dropped his hand away from the handle, sinking further into his seat. He stared out at the sky, the glowing pale moon sitting in the corner of the window. "I always thought it'd be better, to grow up here, away from danger. Away from everything that made me. I mean, isn't that the point of life? To make it easier for the next generation?"

Trevor, for once, doesn't say anything. He listened solemnly as if he were absorbing each of his words. Michael should be grateful, but if anything it's annoying, the silence adding a weight onto his words that he doesn't want to deal with tonight either. 

Michael wasn't that adaptable. Neither was Jimmy. He was reserved, only coming out of his shell on the rare occasions Michael managed to bring it out, like when he would kneel on his aching legs and play with the little plastic soldiers he collected. Except even then he got it wrong- Jimmy placed his men strategically and with purpose. Michael had to follow his son, had to pay close attention to any hint he was doing it wrong. It was always his world, Michael wasn't supposed to interfere with it. 

The change between destinations only brought that out more, finding themselves both lost on what to do with themselves. What to fight for. What to be passionate about. 

If they stayed, if he never let himself get stuck in that room with David… 

Suddenly a pleasant thought ran across his brain, and he felt a small smile form at the ends of his lips. "Tracy would've been something fierce, I bet."

That seemed to perk Trevor up as well. He scratched his chin, grinning foolishly. "Oh, little Tracy. She always was my little soldier. Got twice the balls you do."

Michael agreed, and the guilt stirring in his stomach suddenly ten folds as he looked at Trevor. He doesn't remember the last time he had a real talk with Tracy. He hardly ever sees her unless one of them is in trouble. 

"I'm a bad dad." He stated, his hands tightening into fists. "I really fucked up everything. Jesus. She's like a stranger in my house sometimes. She even has a tattoo. When did that happen?" 

"Well, she takes after me."

Michael hummed in agreement. For the moment they relaxed, just two men sitting in a stolen car and enjoying the tranquility of the night. It was sickening in a way. Out of place for how chaotic the week has been. 

The guilt gave him enough strength to finally push open the door.

They step out into the dry desert air, greeted by the cooing of crickets. The hill was tall enough to take in the long stroke of the ocean. The breeze flushed against his face, soothing his nerves, and he kind of hoped after all of this he would remember to bring Jimmy out here one day. Maybe some time in the wilderness with the old man was all the boy needed. 

He shivered and turned back to Trevor, meeting him with all glory as he stretched his back. He watched, his eyes tracing over the defined muscles until they reached the ink on his bicep. Michael immediately diverted his gaze while Trevor proceeded to stretch his calves as well, bending over and reaching for the ground. 

When he thought it was safe he glanced over, meeting Trevor’s inquisitive eyes. 

"I'm sorry about your tattoo." Michael blurted, and he wouldn’t have realized he said it out loud if Trevor didn’t still the way he did.

He shrugged nonchalantly, though the gesture doesn't quite meet his eyes. "Don't be. I like it."

"Yeah, I know- I mean," Michael sighed. "Yeah, I’m sorry."

He can't help but feel stupid when Trevor doesn't look directly at him, but the tightening of his jaw doesn't go unnoticed. 

"Don't worry about it," Trevor muttered. "I can always just change the date on it."

-

It was time to put this long night to rest. They both prepared themselves behind the vehicle, Michael rubbing his hands together to ignite some life into them. He dug his heel into the dirt, and after the count of three lunged forward, pushing the heavy cartilage with his whole body. The car moved barely an inch.

He shuttered out an exasperated sigh and crouched down, his arms resting over the bumper as he scrutinized the man next to him. Trevor was leaning over the trunk, his arm holding up his weight as he peered down at him with distant eyes. Michael raised a curious eyebrow. 

"If you really wanna make it up to me, you can get one yourself," Trevor said whimsically, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Let me think. 'Trevor Forever'- on your back." 

It took Michael a moment to understand what he was getting at. He studied his half-naked friend, and then let out a shaky chuckle that, unbeknownst to him, quickly became genuine laughter. He buried his head into his arms.

"What? What's wrong with that?"

Michael shook his head, snickering at the absurdity. He burrowed into the crook of his elbow, hiding the foolish grin on his face. He's not even sure what he's really laughing at. 

"God, Mikey, just two healthy men with each other's name on them, nothing to feel weird about."

He leaned his forehead onto the trunk, still smiling to himself. "You are not healthy."

"Oh, right. Almost forgot."

Michael's eyes fluttered shut, wanting nothing more than to collapse onto the ground and end the night here. He tensed as he felt a hand tickle though his hair. Trevor's fingers gently spade against his scalp, his nails scratching the base of his neck. For a moment he's not sure what to do, whether to jump back or exclaim something, before relaxing against it. 

He found himself humming pleasantly, eyes still shut as he titled his head against the bumper. A part of him was hoping Trevor worked his magic lower, maybe digging into his tense shoulders, but he doesn't ask. He couldn't. He's not sure if he could say anything at all right now. Eventually his bent legs began to ache under his weight, and he peaked an eye open. He was quickly met with Trevor's off white underwear, along with a fair outline of his manhood. 

Michael's willed the image away as he stood back up, his joints groaning in protest. "Let's get this over with."

The tires dragged inch by inch into the dirt as they pushed the car over the edge. Once the tip leaned over it fell without effort, tossing in circles until it dived into the ocean. Trevor hardly stopped to look, while Michael watched it sink until the very last corner was underwater, every scrap of paper and loose item, and the owner of it all was entirely submerged.

All they had to do now was wait for Ron to pick them up.

Michael finally stepped back and Trevor went to stand next to him. The sun had begun to peak, the early shades of baby blue returning to the sky. Michael could feel his age, having seen this hundreds of times before, and yet it never stops being worth a look. 

He felt Trevor grab his shoulder, his hand firmer than it had to be. His eyes were still glazed over, his voice faraway. "I'll get you back to your family, Mikey." He promised. 

He wasn't sure how long that was going to take, or whether Trevor was the key to get there.

They both stood side by side as they watched the dawn of another day. He doesn't remove his hand, and Michael doesn't try to brush it off. The corner of his lip tugged upwards. He leaned in closer, just enough for there to still have space between them. 

Michael nodded. "Me too, T."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading. I had no idea people even would and I appreciate it. I'm definitely not over these two and I'm looking forward to writing more about them in the future. I do have a little one shot I did as well if you're interested. 
> 
> Please leave a kudos or comment if you enjoyed!


End file.
